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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24130270">In Darkness We Forget</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/triggerlil/pseuds/triggerlil'>triggerlil</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Darkness, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fred Weasley Dies, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Past Fred/Hermione, Post-War, Sensory Deprivation, Vaginal Fingering, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:41:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,597</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24130270</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/triggerlil/pseuds/triggerlil</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione knew Fred was dead, every morning she woke up in grief, but what would happen if, when comforting George, they knocked over a box of Instant Darkness Powder?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hermione Granger/George Weasley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>In Darkness We Forget</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you to Blue for putting up with my ramblings, as well as Jocsykes and Jack for the betas!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She cupped George’s cheek, and a tear trickled under her palm. It was as if her touch made him cry harder, and soon he was bundled into her arms, his face buried in her bushy hair. She stroked his back, murmured, tried not to let herself be overwhelmed. Tamping down on her own grief, she leaned into him, brushing her nose against the crook of his neck. She breathed in, and he smelled like cinnamon, gun powder, dirt, the Burrow, and something familiar and warm.</p><p>“I don’t—” George hiccoughed, “I just don’t understand.”</p><p>“I know,” she murmured, “I know.”</p><p>Because she didn’t understand either. Fred had been there one moment, and the next second he just… wasn’t.</p><p>In books they often described the dead as looking as though they were sleeping, and until the war, she had always wondered if that was true. Looking at Fred then, she had thought, maybe it was true, a little bit, but at the same time, she could see the ghost of a playful smile on his face. Perhaps he was pulling a prank on all of them, just pretending and he would wake up any moment, jamming his fingers into George’s ribs. He hadn’t—woken up that is—and it had been over three months since the war.</p><p>Hermione and George were standing in the stock room of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, lights dim in the dawn. She had come over to help him sort through some paperwork and ended up sleeping in the flat above the shop, curled up on the sofa in the living room. She had woken up early, everything still dark outside, and heard George padding downstairs.  </p><p>After what felt like an acceptable amount of time looking out the window, watching the black transition into soft grey, she had gone to find him. He had been standing by a shelf of Instant Darkness Powder, hand gripping a ledge, knuckles white. His freckles stood out like pricks of vivid dye, and when she approached him tentatively, his tears began in earnest.</p><p>She missed Fred.</p><p>She remembered his weird laugh, how he had been sharp and soft all at once, with a razor-quick wit, and a fond heart. His warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners and made Hermione’s heart stutter and jump, as though it had been shot through with electricity. </p><p>Wrapped around George, she felt the ghost of Fred’s touch against her back, and a memory of his lips on her neck. She never had trouble telling the twins apart. Their freckle placements were different—no matter what Molly said—Fred had an almost star pattern under his left eye, whereas George’s was more of a rectangle. They had distinct laughs, slightly different turns to their lips, and each had a perceptibley unique look in their eyes when you were standing so close to them you could hear their heartbeat.</p><p>George tightened his arms around her, a pleasant feeling, squeezing out room for her to be anxious or upset. They stumbled backwards together, their socked feet nearly silent on the icy floor. His shoulder hit a box of Instant Darkness Powder, and Hermione reached out a hand, whether to stop it or push it over, she wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter, as the boxes of unpackaged powder fell to the floor. The room was enveloped in darkness.</p><p>It was all-consuming, such that the only thing keeping her grounded was George’s arms, the warmth of his skin against her hands, the press of his thigh, the tickle of his hair on her face.</p><p>“Are you okay?” George asked, voice soft. In the dark, she could almost pretend it sounded different, somber, the moment after fireworks, as opposed to the explosion.</p><p>“I’m fine,” Hermione whispered, because it felt wrong to be loud. “Are you?”</p><p>George nodded against her hair, then laughed, because of course, she couldn't see him, and because it was pitch black, and there were still salt streaks on his cheeks, and wasn't it all just absurd? That you fight one war, and it never stops?</p><p>“Thanks for being here, Hermione,” he said, and it was so unlike his normal firecracker speech, all loud and excited and spontaneous, that she couldn’t help but lean forward and part her lips even though he couldn’t see her. “I mean it, thank you.”</p><p>“You’re welcome—you’ve been there for me too.”</p><p>He softly pressed his fingers into her cheek, nose, ear, hair, trying to find her forehead, and then brushed back her fringe. The movement was so tender, that she could almost imagine that there were stars in the night, an organisation of freckles at the perfect points.</p><p>His breath warmed her face, and then his lips found her forehead, and he rested them there. He was so warm, and his skin was soft, like skin she’d touched before, and then she tilted her head up, searching, feeling, ghosting across him like a spectral lover.</p><p>Their lips brushed, and against her better judgement, Hermione slid one hand around and under George’s shirt; the other up to his neck to pull him closer.</p><p>A light tug followed a preliminary taste, his tears leaving behind a trace of salt, and inexplicably, the sour sweetness of apples. Then he nibbled at her lower lip, and she opened her mouth, and there was tongue, and everything was warm. She let her hand trail up the ridges of his spine, let him skim over the waistband of her pyjamas. Her breath caught in her throat as they took turns to twist and push the other up against the shelves, more Instant Darkness Powder hitting the ground as Hermione pinned him by the waist, rolling her hips against him.</p><p>He moaned into her mouth, and then spun her, pinning her hands above her head with one hand, bringing the other under her shirt, resting on the folds of her stomach. Metal dug into her shoulders and she squirmed against the sharpness, masochistically arching her back, forcing her shoulderblades harder into the shelf. </p><p>“Is this okay?” he asked, voice husky. It was one she hadn’t heard from him before, and it sounded more familiar than it should.</p><p>“Yes.” Right now she couldn’t imagine anything better. She had been wanting something like this for what seemed like years, the desire that head steadily been growing within her now unfurling into something terrifying that she hadn’t yet had the fortune of encountering.</p><p>“Even though we can’t see?”</p><p><em> Because </em> they couldn’t see.</p><p>“It’s a bit exciting, isn’t it?” she said, with a smirk in her voice that she didn’t quite believe in.</p><p>He laughed, and it was back to that crackle and spark, a quick and fiery thing. He transferred that fire into his lips, which he pressed to her neck, biting any soft spot he could find, and pierced her ear. </p><p>She nipped at his jaw, pressed kisses along his cheek, eventually finding one eye and gently kissing the eyelid closed. Their breaths were loud. Everything was loud, and in the darkness all they had was sound, panting, the scratching of fabric, the clatter of their backs on the shelf.</p><p>His hands were on her breasts, and he rubbed small circles over her nipples, which responded, fluctuating between hard and soft, as if her own body was playing with her senses. </p><p>“Why don’t we just—” she huffed, pulling her shirt over her head. A tiny oh ghosted out of his mouth, but she silenced him with another kiss. When she bit on his lip, hard, he grabbed her breasts again, digging his nails into her flesh. It stung, but in a way that reminded her she was alive, that she didn’t die along with Fred, and that in fact, he was right here in front of her.</p><p>Her hands trailed down from where they were clutching at his hair, over his firm chest, down his abdomen, and settled at his hips. She squeezed, and again, they rocked forward, pressing against each other.</p><p>“Hermione—” George breathed, and she stopped him with a parting of lips, her tongue searching for something she knew she couldn't find. He moaned, and she pressed one hand to the hard bulge in his joggers.</p><p>It was bold, and not entirely Hermione, but she wore the pitch-dark like a cloak, and it spurred her on.</p><p>There was a name on the tip of her tongue, she felt it there, like a cherry pastille, and instead of spitting it out, ending everything, she tipped them over the edge.</p><p>“George—” she moaned, because hadn’t she always been able to tell the twins apart?</p><p>She reached for his fly, fumbling, and his lips found hers again. He slowed it all down, mouthing at her lazily, and untied his joggers for her. </p><p>Before they continued, he briefly laced their fingers together, it was so… caring, that she almost sobbed.</p><p>“Are you sure this is okay, are you sure you want—”</p><p>“George, shut up,” she said, smiling. “I want this.”</p><p><em> I want you </em>hung there, unsaid. Because who did she want? Fred? What could come of wanting him? For George to have died instead? To be kissing Fred in the blinding light of the sun, perfect and chaste? George lived, he was here, in front of her, and they were kissing headily in the darkness, wantonly and with fistfuls of ulterior motives. This was reality, this was what she had.</p><p>She pushed down his joggers and felt his cock through his boxers. She turned and pressed him up against the shelf, applying friction. George made a sound deep in his throat, and she wanted to hear it again.</p><p>She and Fred had never gotten this far, just kissing, all light and airy, as though they had all the time in the world to explore any seedy desires. Which was obviously not the case. Hermione realised her hands were damp, and that her heart was attempting to beat itself out of her chest.</p><p>She couldn’t take a deep breath, because George would hear. She steeled herself, put her hand into his boxers, and wrapped her fingers around his shaft. For a moment, she was unsure what to do, just stood there, kind of kissing and kind of not, with her hand curled around his hard cock.</p><p>It was surprisingly dry and smooth, although she wasn’t sure what she was expecting. She tentatively rubbed a thumb over his slit, pushing down his foreskin slightly, and moving his precum around the head. Swirling her thumb, she frantically thought of what to do next.</p><p>“Do you want help?” George asked, arching into her touch. She nodded, a nearly imperceptible jerk, and he took her hand, kissed her palm, and cast a charm that slicked it with something cool. The display of wordless, wandless magic surprised her. Fred had never done anything like that; she had never even thought to ask if he could.</p><p>He carefully brought her hand back down, wrapped it around his cock, and then his hand around hers. Their kissing picked up in earnest, their tongues met again as he slid her hand up and down, a quick rotation of her wrist. When she got the hang of it, he moved his hands up to fondle her chest, occasionally scratch down her stomach, or pinch her nipples.</p><p>She picked up the pace, quick flicks, the lube miraculously never drying, and soon his breath was heavy, his mouth barely moving against hers as they gasped into each other as if their lives depend on it. She wanted this, wanted to give him this, wanted him to fall apart beneath her. </p><p>He orgasmed with a shaky sputter, his ejaculation slicking her hand and splattering onto her stomach. He moaned, and pulled her hand from his over-sensitive prick.</p><p>“What now?” she asked. The darkness was going to be lifting soon, and she wasn’t sure what was going to happen when it did. </p><p>“I want to help you,” he said, because apparently that was one of the only things George Weasley was able to do now—help Hermione Granger. “I want to make you feel… I want to make you come.”</p><p>She sucked in a breath. His forwardness sent a shock through her spine, and she took his hand from her chest, guiding it down, where she shimmied her pyjama bottoms down her hips. When his hand slipped beneath her knickers, he kissed her again, somehow still hungry despite his recent release. She pushed her knickers down too, the chill of the storage room on her bare skin even more tantalizing with her lack of sight. </p><p>He started with just a light touch, brushing a finger back and forth between her slit, sending shivers throughout her body. Then he spread her apart, seeking her clit, tracing circles, hounding out pleasure.</p><p>She didn’t make a sound, she wouldn’t lead him on, wouldn’t pretend to feel something she didn't, but she guided his hand and she trembled and moaned into his mouth as he did into hers. She couldn’t stop running her hand through his hair, letting it trail between her fingers, and when his movements quickened, she pulled at it, holding on for dear life. </p><p>“George, I—” she panted, “I think—”  </p><p>She orgasmed with words on her tongue—tangy unspoken sweetness. </p><p>They stood there, Hermione tucked against George's chest, their joggers around their thighs. She felt sticky and wet, breathing in the scent of sweat and George's natural smell. </p><p>It was still dark, Hermione realised, with a great wave of relief. It was still dark, and she wasn’t sure when she had gotten used to it, but she was already aching for the light to return.</p><p>He cleared his throat. “Should we?” he asked. </p><p>She nodded, pulling up her pyjamas, taking out her wand and casting a cleaning charm as George tied up his joggers. She felt a bit empty, like a wave that's broken before it can crash against the shore. </p><p>"Accio top," she whispered, pulling it over her head. </p><p>He ran a hand through her hair, twirling a curl around his finger. She didn't want to speak, to move, to breathe. The darkness slowly lifted, and the early morning sunlight pricked holes in their shield.</p><p>As lightness bled in, George was revealed to her. His dishevelled red hair, calculating brown eyes, swathes of freckles and that one, lone rectangle. In the sunlight, Hermione could see that his freckles were just freckles, and that it was Fred who had constellations.  </p><p>She squinted against the new light, and she wasn't sure what she expected to see in George’s face, but it wasn’t this. He looked sad, and knowing, and a little like he was mourning something.</p><p>“That was nice,” he whispered, because although it wasn't dark, it still felt wrong to talk, wasted Powder scattered around their feet like memories, like ashes, like sparkling fallen stars.</p><p>“It was,” she said, with a small smile, because it was, truthfully.</p><p>They both spoke in voices that said one thing but meant another. George was not Fred, she knew, and George knew she knew. However, it wasn’t about pretending one was the other, or even believing it was so, but simply forgetting that they weren't the same person. If Hermione could forget, for even an instant, then Fred was brought back to life momentarily. That desire was one both she and George had in common.  </p><p>He brushed a chaste kiss to her lips, and in the sunlight, she could almost pretend he was Fred, wonderful and hilarious and mischievous Fred, but he wasn't, and it took darkness to forget.</p>
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